


Allergy

by pjlover666



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pjlover666/pseuds/pjlover666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even Cybertronians get "allergies".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allergy

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Allergy  
> Rating: K  
> 'verse: AU, G1  
> Genre: Crack, silly  
> Characters: Ratchet, Jazz, Prowl  
> Warnings: None.  
> Summary: Even Cybertronians get "allergies".  
> Disclaimer: TF doesn't belong to me.

"But Ah'm sick!" Jazz protested from where he was perched up on the medical berth in the med bay, when Ratchet pointed at the door.

"No, you're not. All of my tests prove so, now scram!"

"Ratchet, it has to be some kind of a virus." Jazz insisted and grabbed one of the medical cables, inserting it into his wrist port. "My core temperature sky-high rises, vents stall, vision blurs and Ah feel as if my spark will explode!"

Ratchet loomed over Jazz, "There is nothing physically wrong with you. I can't fix anything because there's nothing to fix!"

Jazz clutched his helm in frustration. He wasn't making things up, he really wasn't! Only, just in that moment, the med bay doors opened and a mech walked in.

Prowl stopped in his tracks, "Is this a good time? I can come later..." He looked at Jazz who had a medical jack and was clutching his helm, with Ratchet fussing over him.

"Yes." Ratchet growled, "Everything's fin—" The medic wasn't able to finish his sentence as the medical alerts beeped. He looked up at the monitor and watched as the readings elevated.

"Ratchet?" Prowl asked concerned and walked over them. Jazz readings spiked again as the spy's visor brightened, the monitor starting to beep frantically, indicating the rapid spark beat. Prowl reached out with one hand and placed it over Jazz's shoulder, squeezing.

"You told me you weren't feeling well. I shouldn't have assigned you work this orn..." Prowl chastised himself. Jazz opened his mouth to say something, bursting static before he regained composure.

"...Ah, it's nothing really Prowler." He grinned. "Probably some stupid virus..."

"There's no such thing as a minor virus." Prowl frowned. "You're off duty until this gets fixed."

Jazz only nodded as Prowl turned to look at Ratchet. "I just came to get the some of the reports from the last battle."

"And you got here to get them personally?" Ratchet asked as he switched off the beeping sound and smirked at Prowl.

"I... needed to stretch my legs." Explained the Praxian, "Plus, I heard Jazz was here for tests again so it was only prudent of me to check up on him." Prowl explained reasonably.

"Right." Said the medic flatly. "Well, you don't need to worry, he just has a...minor allergy."

"Allergy?" Prowl frowned, "Is our kind even—"

"Yes, we can get allergies. But don't worry, I know the perfect cure." There was something wicked in the medic's smile, "All I need you to do, Prowl, is to make sure Jazz rests and takes his energon regularly for the next couple of orns." There was an indignant squeak from Jazz, but the medic kept on, "So that means you need to spend some time around him. He's good to write reports so the two of you doing desk duty is ideal."

"I see." Prowl responded neutrally, looking Jazz over. The spy just grinned at him, for having nothing better to do. "Well, I'll be waiting for you in my office then, Jazz. I have energon there."

"Yeah, sure. Thanks." Jazz babbled nonsense as he watched Prowl take the needed reports and trail with him optics as he left.

Ratchet sighed, "Okay, you could have mentioned the fact that you are helm over pedes in love with that mech!"

"Am not!" Was the childish protest.

"Right." Ratchet huffed. Jazz looked away, pouting.

"Is there... a cure?"

"To love? Yeah, it's called bonding." The medic snorted.

"Ratchet!"

"The only advice I can give you, is to tell him how you feel." Ratchet said more seriously, before he added, "And then frag the sense out of each other to get it out of your system."

"Right." Jazz said flatly, "Thanks, that was so much helpful." And pulled out the jack, jumping off the berth, "It sounds oh so simple."

"It is."

"I beg to differ." Jazz muttered, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a dat— lunch with Prowler."

Ratchet shook his head, "You can thank me later."

Jazz completely ignored him.

"I want one of the sparklings named after me!"

The door slammed.

Left alone, Ratchet let out the fond chuckle he had been holding. Sparklings, indeed.


End file.
